


This Doesn't Even Feel Like Falling

by agent_orange



Category: Firefly
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Con Artists, F/M, Late Night Conversations, Love/Hate, Medical Procedures, Missing Scene, Prostitution, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-25
Updated: 2009-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So. Business—the whoring kind. How's that working out for you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Doesn't Even Feel Like Falling

**one**

They have a job, which is good, because work's been scarce lately. If they pull it off and everything goes smooth, there'll be quite a nice payload. There should be a little coin left over after fuel, oil, repairs, secondhand parts, bullets...all the things they need to keep Serenity in the air. Maybe they can even pick up some fresh fruit and vegetables on Persephone after they get Badger the cargo—Kaylee's been looking a bit tired lately, and though he ain't sure if it's possible for her to be, the last thing Mal needs is Kaylee unhappy. And with this job, Jayne won't rightly have the grounds to complain about not bein' paid enough.

Mal has a good feeling about this one. He don't foresee any complications cropping up, but like weeds, they do, and he never sees them comin' ahead of time. Badger has more men this time, and tries to cheat them out of five percent of their cut. He's thinking that maybe they can work this out, no harm, no foul, but then Jayne makes a comment that Badger's a sissy who's gotta rip off innocent folk like them.

There's a fight, and though they've seen plenty worse, Mal's about ready to_ throttle_ Jayne for getting them into it. One of the _húndàns_ manages to knock Zoe out, which couldn't have been an easy task, and Mal gets knifed in the thigh, caught as he was trying to get out of there. Jayne walks away with only a few bruises and scratches, which don't seem right.

Jayne has to carry Zoe back to the docks, and Wash doesn't look too happy to see his wife in Jayne's arms, but he keeps his mouth shut.

"Just take her to _our_ bunk," Wash says, his voice harsh.

"I ain't a gorram bellboy," Jayne grumbles. "Do it yourself. Or are you too—" he starts, but a sharp look from Mal shuts him up. He'd much rather have carried Zoe back himself instead of making Jayne do it, but his leg wouldn't have been able to hold her up steady. That's something he should probably see to—it's deep enough to need stitches, but not so deep that he needs to pay to see a doctor and fall behind schedule. He's hardly decent at doing them (Zoe's sewn him up most times), but hell if he's going to let Jayne loose with a needle that close to his dick. He should get some whiskey from the kitchen. Dull the pain, and have a _real_ drink afterwards.

Mal's rummaging through the cabinets to find where Jayne stashed the bottle, and Inara walks in--he can tell by the click of her heels. Just what he needs: Inara around when he's bleeding, and tetchy because of it.

"You really should have Zoe look at that," she says quietly.

"She's out. One of Badger's henchmen hit her in the head. Gonna fix it up myself."

"I'm quite good at sewing." Inara pauses, then: "And we were taught some first aid. Nothing advanced, but...it looks like you need stitches, and I could do them."

"'s mighty kind of you." She'd probably do a better job than he could. "Well, okay. Don't want you passin' out on account of the blood, though. Nothin' to be ashamed of if you do."

"Mal, please. I've seen far worse."

She has him sit on the table while she assembles the supplies: disinfectant, a needle, thread, a needle driver. There ain't much to it, but sewin' yourself up is tricky.

"Would you like something for the pain?" she asks. "It's nothing to be _ashamed_ of."

He shakes his head, and Inara says, "Alright, then. I need you to take your pants off."

"Bet you say that to a lotta people."

Inara doesn't reply, just purses her lips, bends her head, and, once Mal's pulled his pants down, starts sewing. Her hands are pale and smooth; her nails painted deep red. She's good at this, as she said—a damn sight better than Mal (or even Zoe) can do. Her stitches are precise, short and neat, and she works slowly but carefully. She checks them when she's done, making sure that they'll hold.

"Keep it clean, and don't do anything to make them tear. Because if that happens out here, you'll be without a doctor, and as you should know, you'll bleed out."

"Thanks," he mutters, and goes to get that drink.

 

**two**

It ain't his fault he dreams about her, or that he lets his hand wander 'twixt his legs while he's thinkin' on her. It's never Zoe or Kaylee (Zoe would kick his ass, and Kaylee's...well, Kaylee's a kid whose protection he promised to her father, and he's not about to make Mr. Frye mad). Sometimes River is in his head (which is even more wrong—she's a child, and not quite right), talking to him about Serenity's qualifications as she perches on his lap and smells his neck. Occasionally it's Simon, but most often it's Inara. In his head, her eyes are a little darker than usual, deep with thought and wanting, her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are free of makeup and swollen from the press of his own against hers. She tastes like wine and smells like basil and soap. He tangles his fingers in silky black curls, and she doesn't care if they get mussed; she tumbles him into his bed (never hers, there are too many histories and half-truths woven in with the cotton of her sheets), and draws the covers.

Mal feels guilty about it, even though it's natural for him to want her. After all, she's trained to make people desire her.

 

**three**

Serenity's home. She might be just a waystation for Inara, somewhere to live when she's not traveling the nicer parts of the 'verse. She sleeps in her shuttle, alone, and with clients, entertains them there, but that's all it is to her: a shuttle. Short-range, twelve ton capacity, sixteen credits a year to keep her up and running. Inara flies her, docks her, but it's just a bitty ship, so much smaller than a luxury-liner she could've shipped out on.

But Serenity...Mal loves Serenity. The beating heart, so much warmer than his own; metal bones and wire veins—half-human, half-machine. She's solid. Dependable. A safe haven. And even if he wanted her to, she could never come second to Inara.

 

**four**

Right after Saffron kisses him, and Mal starts to get a little woozy, he thinks of Inara, just for a fleeting moment. She wouldn't lure him in with neediness and fear. No, Inara would be graceful and quietly confident. She'd let him make the first move to kiss her, let him smooth her hair behind her ear. Her lips would be softer than Saffron's, though just as painted, leaving bright marks like brands on his skin.

Saffron's tongue slips into his mouth, an' then his lips start tingling. Well, _that's_ new. And then he starts feeling lightheaded and dizzy, and it ain't 'cause of the kiss.

_Dàxiàng bàozhàshì de lādùzi,_ if Inara finds out that Saffron kissed him, and he let her, she'll be tetchy. Then she'll be amazed at how he could be tempted by such second-rate 'wiles'.

 

**five**

"How was business?"

"Mal, please." Inara rolls her eyes. 

"What? I'm just trying to be polite. Civil-like, and all. So. Business—the whoring kind. How's that working out for you?"

"And you wonder why I won't service crew," she says, turning sharply on her heel.

 

**six**

Inara's shuttle is empty. She said her goodbyes three days ago, from what Mal measures, but then, it could be two or five days ago, or a lifetime. It weren't an easy parting: Kaylee had cried and held tight to Inara until Mal put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her away, gentle as he could. He saw the tears in River's eyes, but she was happy for Inara, at the same time. 

"It's a new life," very quietly. "The essential part is to be reborn into a new body. You'll like it there." And then, when Inara showed her a capture of the house: "It's pretty."

The shuttle seems much larger with nothing in it, and it don't feel right. When she inquired about renting it, she'd commented that it was smallish, but that really ain't the case. At least... it ain't the case when her big bed's gone. The floor is bare; she and Shepherd Book removed the fancy plush carpeting themselves, before she left. The tapestries and paintings aren't hanging on the walls; the room's dark even without the heavy red curtains weighing it down. A few scattered candles remain, along with a shattered teacup. Only thing's stayed the same is the tiny, cramped cockpit.

He turns to leave, and spots a small wooden crate with a translucent silky...something spilling out. _Must've forgotten it in her haste to leave_. He knows he shouldn't open it—it ain't right to—but his curiosity gets the better of him and he clicks the locks up. There's a few more pieces of silk inside, and a little scrap of a nightshirt: black and short; close-fitting at the top and flaring out like a bell or a flower. 'Nara was kind of like a flower, shaded by soft petals that peeled back gradually to reveal the true center.

Mal should send the box back to her. Yep. Can't have it lyin' around.

 

**seven**

He goes to check on the doc, see how he's holding up, what with the bullet in his leg, and Zoe trying to remove it without damaging muscle or cutting too deep. Wash wipes her brow with a cloth; she closes her eyes for a brief second, and then continues. Inara stands outside of the infirmary, watching. She runs her fingers over her lip, absentmindedly tracing the place where it'd been split. They're too far out in the black for Inara to take clients (her shuttle wouldn't make it to the Core without several stops to refuel), but even if they're weren't, she probably wouldn't have any until she's healed.

"Hey," he says, and she draws in a breath too quick. Her eyes are wide when she turns and sees it's only him. "Didn't mean to give you a fright. How's your lip?" Mal takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the swollen area. "Seems a bit tender."

"I have some salve that will help." She pauses. "Thank you. I told Simon I'd look in on River."

"Oh," Mal replies, only realizing that's what she's doing when she walks away, seeming, just maybe, a little happier than before.

 

**eight**

Inara makes him tea once, after he gets shot and his ship nearly stolen and left for dead. For now, they have a truce, and it's a mite unsteady, but Mal appreciates it. It's sort of nice not being at each other's throats all the time. The only problem is that the anger gets pent up and he's got no one to let it out on. And he can't sleep, either. The meds make him drowsy, but he's never slept easy, and he certainly wouldn't now. He could walk Serenity like he always does, but actually, he really can't, because he's still in some pain, and as Simon reminded him, he could tear his stitches. He's heard that warm milk or somethin' is supposed to help, but all they have is a stove and some milk substitute. _Can't hurt to try_.

Mal's trying to find where they keep the gorram kettle when Inara pads into the kitchen, probably woken by the noise. She's not wearing heels like normal, but slippers. Probably for sleepin' in.

"Sorry if I woke you," he says.

"You didn't. I was coming in to see if there's anything left to eat, anyway. Is there?"

"Protein bars and some dried fruit. It ain't much, but it'll fill you up a little."

She nods, inky curls bouncing with each tip and raise of her chin. "I'll make some tea, then. It'll help the taste. Would you like some?"

"You don't mind?"

"Mal. You were gravely injured; left for _dead_. You really should be resting, but you so rarely do." She starts boiling water in her own electric kettle. The water runs lukewarm. It's not quite clear—just a little brown—and it has a vaguely aluminum taste. On Serenity, it's really tea or liquor for drink choices.

"What kind would you like?" she asks.

"Don't much have a preference." Inara hands him a black lacquered teacup with no handle. It matches the one her own fingers are curled around; when he sips from it, he can't quite place the flavor, but it's some sort of herb, and it's calming. They're quiet for a few minutes, just sipping; when Inara sets her cup down, there's a perfect crescent of red on the side.

"River seems to be doing well."

"Suspect that's so."

"You know, you really ought to give Simon more credit. He gave up everything to rescue her." Inara's tone isn't harsh or reprimanding; she sounds almost amazed at their medic.

"Who's to say I don't? Let him stay on my ship, didn't I?"

Mal grows tired after awhile, thanks to the tea, and sleeps easy.

 

**nine**

"She doesn't want to leave." River is in the co-pilot's chair, guiding Serenity through a series of twists and turns. "She wants to stay now; to make things better. Don't make her leave."

The Alliance has threatened to freeze Inara's accounts if she stays on Serenity, to take away her license to Companion—basically, to blacklist her into coming back under their thumb. Inara does less business these days, and her clothes aren't as lavish, but according to her, being a Companion is such an integral part of herself that even if she does give it up, it would be a long process.

"I know, little albatross."

 

**ten**

They have a course set for Highgate. It's a good place for a heist: small, populated with unassuming folk, and hardly somewhere the Alliance would have reason to stop. The job won't be hard; they're just deliverin' some basic supplies (protein, guns, blankets and the like), but they'll hang around for a few days to help unpack and restock the ship.   Wash's been askin' about spending a few days planetside (he'd like to hole up in a cheap room with Mal's first mate, no doubt), and Inara'd made it very clear that there's no reason she couldn't start screening clients _now_, just for the record. He figures they don't breed her usual type on Highgate, but Rim folk like a thrust just as much as anyone. A few of 'em got money—a young couple waved him to ask if they could book a passage to Boros, and they'd saved up enough to afford it. Just 'cause it's a ways out from the Core don't mean there's no one can pay for luxuries.

He should tell her. Inara. It's one of his important captainly duties and all to keep his crew—and...ambassador—informed. There's soft music filtering out of her shuttle, muffled by the walls, but clear enough nonetheless. Good. He doesn't have to seek her out. "'Nara. We're due to land on Highgate in a day or two, so you can finally start lookin' for those 'respectable' clients you were goin'..." he swallows hard around a lump in his throat. Inara's sitting on her floor (carpeted; she'd had that done before moving in), sponge in hand, taking a bath. Well, sort of a bath. She's washing the back of her neck, her shoulders, and her dress is puddled in a pool 'round her legs. Streams of water run down her back in trails, separating and joining, forming drops and tapering off, and _tian xiao de_ if he doesn't want to lick them up with his tongue. He knows he can't, but he's a man, and men, as Inara knows very well, have needs, and it's been a long while since he's seen a woman like that ain't part of his crew.

She turns to face him, drawing her dress up much too slowly for Mal's liking. Or just slowly enough, but he _can't_ think of her like that. "I suppose there are some decent customers there. Thank you for informing me."

Mal turns to leave.

"Captain--"

"Mal. Don't call me 'captain'. Only my crew calls me captain, and you ain't my crew. Don't pay you for anything."

"As we agreed upon. But Mal, I have to ask you to knock before entering my shuttle. We agreed upon that as well."

"Right," he says, trying not to stare. "Will do."


End file.
